


I Know Him

by crossingwinter



Series: Beyond The End [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Miscarriage, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Arya x Gendry Week 2016.  A sequel of sorts</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know Him

Arya was sitting with Bran in the solar that they had once scampered about in as children while their father worked.  Bran was leaning on one arm on a daybed while Arya sat on the floor.  Things felt better seated on the floor.  Her body ached less, and she felt less dizzy, and more grounded.  Bran did not ask her why she sat there.  He did not ask her about the dark circles under her eyes, about the way she looked pale in the mirror even to her own eyes, about the oily, unbrushed mess that was her dark hair.  

 _I’m sure he can smell_ , she thought sadly.  She could when she wore Nymeria’s skin.  She could smell it on her, the scent of blood that wasn’t normal blood.

She shifted, and her lower abdomen ached but she didn’t wince as she crossed her legs.  She looked up at Bran.  “It’s only a matter of time,” he said again.

He’d been saying it whenever they’d fallen silent over the course of the morning, and each time he did, a shiver went up Arya’s spine.  She knew he was right, but she did not wish to think on it.

There was plague in the south.  A sweating, poxy sickness that had hit Oldtown, and Gulltown, and King’s Landing alike.  They said that there were corpses on the streets of Lannisport–so many that they couldn’t bury them quick enough, and they made walls that blocked the living from their homes.  Lord Manderly had already ordered the port in White Harbor closed, and was confident that plague would not reach the his city, but Bran’s words sent a chill down Arya’s spine.

“It’s only a matter of time.”

She chewed her lip.  “Do you think it will spread?” she asked him.  The North was far more sparse than the south, and that may be a blessing in this case.

Bran closed his eyes.  “I don’t know,” he said quietly.  “It will all depend on timing,” he said.  “If it breaks out this week while the fair is happening…” he swallowed, and Arya closed her eyes.

“It can’t,” she said forcefully.  Gendry was in White Harbor for the fair.  They’d been planning to go together, and Arya had been going to tell him there, but then Bran had asked for her to come to Winterfell, so she’d put it off.  She’d been glad she had in the end.  She hoped he was happy, and enjoying himself.  She’d have been miserable there. She was miserable here.  But the misery was less bad with Bran.

“If it does,” Bran said, “It will spread fast unless we close the city, and bar everyone from entering and exiting, which I’m sure the lords of the North will be thrilled with, as many of their sons and daughters are there now.”

It was a summer festival, one that the Manderlys had decided to host every year following Bran’s return.  A place to show off the wares of the North for sale to the South.  She imagined it was a good deal less vibrant this year, with the port blocked to Southron ships and merchants from the Free Cities.  

There was a knock at the door, and Maester Lonnel came in.  His expression sent a chill down Arya’s spine.

“It broke out, didn’t it?” Bran said, his voice hollow.

“It did, your grace.  On the first day of the festival.  Lord Wyman awaits your command,” he said.  

Arya stood, ignoring the way her back ached as Tommard and Glendon entered the room behind the maester and lifted Bran into his chair.  They carried it outside, Arya behind them, trying to ignore her own dizziness, trying not to feel ill. _Please,_ she almost prayed. _Please, I know–I know you must, but…_

_But Gendry’s in White Harbor._

What gods could she pray to when it was Bran who spoke through the trees?

She followed them to the godswood, and sat beneath the tree as countless other Starks had done through centuries and centuries.  He leaned his head against the bone-pale wood and closed his eyes.

“Lord Wyman,” he said, and Arya wished she could hear too.  She stood, watching Bran. He didn’t say a word, and she couldn’t tell if he was listening, or if he was waiting.  She was not sure she wanted to know.  She felt ill.  Quite as ill as she’d felt last month, when hardly a morning went by without her retching into the latrine.  But she didn’t think she’s going to retch now.

“Close the city,” Bran said.  “No one is to enter or leave.  I will handle Lord Tallhart and Lady Flint.  There will be no plague in the North.”

He opened his eyes and looked at Arya, and they were so blue, and so sad.  

“Gendry?” she asked quietly.

“Lord Wyman didn’t say,” he replied.  “If he’s there, he won’t be leaving, I’m afraid.”

Arya did not move.  She focused on breathing.  Plague, in the city, and Gendry’s there.  She knew he was, quite as sure as she knew anything.  

“I’m sure that Lord Wyman will keep his guests confined to the New Castle so as not to bring plague within his walls,” Bran said.  He was trying to sound consoling.  He had that tone that he got when he wanted to pat her arm, except she was too far away.  “Gendry will be safe there.”

Arya looked at Bran evenly, and took a deep breath.  “And I know him,” she said.  “I know he won’t stay within the castle walls while the city suffers.  He’ll…he’ll be stupid.”  He’ll do good.  He would because it’s what she would do, and lordship sat on Gendry’s shoulders well.  He took responsibility in his own hands, and even if the people of White Harbor weren’t his people…

“ _I’m a bastard from Flea Bottom_ ,” she could almost hear him say insistently, argumentatively.  She could see him now, arms crossed over his chest, tilting his head forward slightly, preparing for the fight.  “ _You think I can just sit here safe with all the other lordlings while they die around me like they don’t matter?  It’s not my city, but it’s a city, and I’m going to help them, Arya_.”

“Arya,” Bran began, because Arya had already turned on her heel and was hurrying from the godswood.  The ache in her abdomen was nothing to the way her heart was twisting in her chest as she hurried to the stables and called for a horse to be made ready.

* * *

Arya was lucky: the boat she took down the White Knife took only three days to make it to the coast.  The wind was with them, and there was a great deal of snowmelt to make the river swell as it carried her south.  

They reached a dock five miles from the city with a chain that crossed the river.  The intent was clear: you could not sail into White Harbor.  So Arya descended, paid the captain for his services, and rode the rest of the way to the city’s walls.

As she approached, the wind was to her back, but the closer she got to the city, the more she could smell two things that were all too familiar–the particular scent of dead and rotting flesh, and the unmistakable smell of cooked man, cremated since they could not leave the city to bury him.   _So fast_ , she thought sadly.  She didn’t want to think about what it would be like inside the city.

Arya reached the gates and banged on the door as loudly as she could.  A guard opened a barred window, raising his eyebrows at her.  “What do you want?” he grunted.  It was almost refreshing, not to be recognized.  “I’m looking for Lord Gendry Hollowhill,” she said firmly.  

“Well, you’re not like to find him,” the guard grunted.  “He can’t come out, and you can’t go in.  King’s orders.”

“I’m aware,” Arya said.  “I come from the king.  Could I convince you to locate him?  Or Lord Manderly.  I’ve no preference as to which.”  That was a lie, but it didn’t matter.  The guard narrowed his eyes.  “From the king, you said?  Winterfell’s ten days from here.”

“Not by boat,” Arya said evenly.  

“What’ve you got there, Gav?” came a voice from the other side of the gate, and a second guard appeared behind the first.  This one recognized her.  “M’lady!” he said, bobbing his head.  

“Lady?” Gav asked, confused.

“Would you be so good as to find either Lord Manderly or my husband and bring them to this gate?” Arya asked firmly.

“At once m’lady!” the second guardsman said and he hurried off.

Gav’s mouth dropped open as Arya saw him connect the dots.  “Lady Stark!” he squawked.  Arya forced a smile at him.  “Please forgive me.  I didn’t know.”

“It’s nothing,” Arya said.  “There’s more important things to concern yourself with.”

She waited for half an hour by the gate before Gav and the other guardsmen called to her again. She was sitting on a fence ten feet off and hurried to the window, her heart in her throat to find herself face to face with Wylis Manderly.  He is holding a handkerchief to his face, covering his nose and mouth.

“Princess,” he said, bowing his head.  

“Wylis,” she said.  “How fares the city.”

He shakes his head.  “It hit fast.  And hard.  Half the city’s ill with it, and the rest are afraid to leave their homes.”

“Thank you for braving the city to come speak with me,” Arya said, suddenly feeling guilty.  “I know I ask you to risk your health,” she began, but he was shaking his head.

“I had to, my lady.  Even if you’d not asked, I would have come the moment I heard you were asking for Gendry.”  His tone of voice made Arya’s stomach sink.  “He’s ill with it.  Caught it almost immediately.  He was trying to organize some of the children who weren’t sick, but whose parents had fallen ill and, well…”

She closed her eyes for a moment.   _Stupid_ , she thought.   _Of course you were, you great stupid…_ “Is he bad?” she asked quietly, dreading the answer.

The silence was damning.  

Arya suddenly felt tired–more tired than she had when she’d been bleeding out the babe.  She wanted to put her head in her hands, wanted to yell, wanted to break down the door and find him, hold him, be sick with him.  Instead, she looked at Wylis Manderly, and his nervous brown eyes and said, “Thank you for telling me.”

“Will you return to Winterfell?  Or Hornwood?”

Arya took a deep breath.  “There was an inn by the river,” she said slowly.  “At least for tonight, I’ll sleep.”

Wylis nodded.  “If there is anything I can do…”

“Tend to your people.  And don’t let my husband die.”

* * *

Arya stayed three days in the inn five miles to the north of White Harbor.  Each morning, she rode down to the city and asked if there was news of her husband, asked how the city fared, asked if she could be of service.  And each day, less than an hour later, she was returning to the inn.

Arya did not like to be sat on her ass doing nothing.  It was something she’d learned after she’d brought Bran home.  Days spent lazing on a bed, or lying in the grass looking at the sky–they made for pretty pictures, but Arya felt too much as though there was much to be done and she should be doing it.  So she offered her services to the innkeep, and helped scrub some floors in the afternoons, much to the shock of his wife.  

“A lady–a princess like yourself shouldn’t be scrubbing at floors,” Goodwife Nara said in shock when she came upon Arya, sleeves rolled up to her elbows wringing a rag of murky grey and brown water.

“So long as I’ve been a princess, I’ve scrubbed floors,” Arya shrugged.  She didn’t elaborate.  Goodwife Nara didn’t need to know about Harrenhal, or about Braavos.  

Arya was unused to scrubbing floors, and the activity made her shoulders ache, but it was the good ache.  It was not the ache in her womb when the baby in there had died, nor was it the ache in her heart that came whenever she thought of Gendry, lying ill and sweating in some strange bed.  It was the ache that came from swordplay, from a day’s hard riding, from helping Bess move the furniture around her house because Bess could never decide where she wanted her furniture.

On the fourth day, Arya rode for White Harbor and was met not with Gav, or with the second guardsman named Cale, or even Wylis Manderly.

“Hello, you,” he whispered and Arya pressed her face as close as she could to the window, her body flush against the wood of the gate as if there weren’t three feet of it between her and Gendry.

“You look tired,” she said.  He did.  There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looked waxy even under his beard.

“I am,” he said.  “But I feel better.”

“Your fever’s broken?”

“Aye.  And some of the pox are going away and haven’t been lanced.”

“Is the pox bad?” she asked.  She saw no signs of it on his face.  

“They itch,” he said.  “The maester had my hands wrapped in cloth to keep me from scratching at them in my fever.”  

He was looking at her, drinking her in, and she was drinking him in as well, the shape of his nose–unchanged–the curve of his cheek–more hollow than before–the color of his lips–chapped.  “You’re alive,” she whispered.

“You’d have a job getting rid of me,” he said.  “And now that I’ve gotten sick, I may actually be of use.  Can’t very well catch it again, can I?” he chanced a grin, and Arya rolled her eyes.

“Did you do it on purpose?”

“No,” he said, and she believed him.  At least…she thought she did.  “I’m not you.  I wouldn’t go and do that.  Not when I also want to get home safe and sound to you.  Just bad luck,” he said.

Arya couldn’t look away.  There were bars between them, and feet of solid strong wood, but she wanted little more than to reach out her hand and cup his face, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers.  But she knew that was stupid, knew that that could bring plague to the north, for disease could travel quickly.  She wanted to hold him, to be held by him, to just…

She didn’t want to feel empty the way she did, the way she had since she’d started bleeding.  And somehow she always felt better when Gendry was there, when it was the two of them together.   _We’re together now,_ she told herself looking at him, forcing herself to keep her hand at her side.   _I’m here with him now, and he’s here with me._  But it wasn’t the same, somehow.  

 _He’s alive,_ she thought. _And he’ll be out someday.  And then…_ it felt like so long from now.

“Arya?” How he could manage to fit so much into those two little syllables was beyond her.  Her throat was thick again, and Arya bit her lip.  She wanted him to ride back with her, to come back with her to Hornwood, and to make her laugh by being stupid.  He had been watching her, and she fumbled for the lie.

“I miss you,” she said.  “I don’t want to leave you here.”

Gendry sighed, and shook his head.  “Go home.”  At least his voice sounded heavy.  At least the words sounded like they pained him as much as they pained her.  “I’m well, and I’ll be well.  You won’t have to worry about me.  I can help now, at least, without fear of getting sick.  I can serve Bran’s people here, and you can go home and make sure ours are safe and healthy and…”

Arya blinked back the pricking sensation in her eyes.  She didn’t want to leave him.  She didn’t want to be alone.   _You won’t be alone, stupid_ , she told herself.  She’d have everyone at Hornwood to fill her days, but it wasn’t the same.  It wasn’t just waiting for Gendry to come home, not when she felt empty like this.

“Not just yet,” she whispered, and she looked at him.  “Please, not just yet.”   _I thought I was going to lose you, like I lost our child._

They stood quietly for a few moments.  Arya traced her fingers along the wood paneling of the gate, pretending that it was Gendry’s skin, but it was hard and cold and unyielding, which made it difficult.  

She looked between her hand and his face, and he was frowning.

“Arya?” he asked her again.  “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” she lied.  Suddenly it was like the day she’d woken up in a bed of blood all over again, feeling nothing but despair, wishing he would tell her everything was well, that she was all right, it would be alright, and she could find solace in the warmth of his arms, just as she’d always done.  But there’s three feet of wood and iron between them now, and his eyes are distant as he thinks on her words.  

“I’m well,” he said, trying to smile.  “You needn’t worry.”

“I’m not.  Not truly.”

“Then what is it?  Why are you chewing your lip like that?”

It took every ounce of strength she had to say it.  “I’ll tell you when you come home.  Now…now is not the time.”  She couldn’t bear to say it and then leave.  She couldn’t.  She wanted to say it and then feel his arms around her, holding her so close it was like they were one person.

She saw his eyes flash with an idea.  “Are you….you’re not?”

“It’s not what you think it is,” she said quickly, sadly.

“What do I think it is?”

“I’ll tell you when you come home,” she said, turning away.  

“Arya,” he called after her and she looked back at him.  “Are you pregnant?”  There was such sweet hope in his voice.

“I’ll tell you when you come home,” she repeated for the third time.  “I should ride before it gets dark.”

“You’ll be safe on your own?” he asked her at once, and she half-rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be fine.”

Gendry nodded.  “Do good,” she told him.  “And…and be safe.  Be healthy.”

“I will,” he promised.  “I’ll be back to you before you know it.”

“You’d better,” she said, and turned away, not wanting him to see the look on her face as she turned her back and pressed her hand against her face to keep from sobbing.

* * *

She rode hard and fast to Hornwood, and threw herself into the running of the castle.  Before she knew it, it was late summer, and they needed to plan for the harvest, and prepare stores for winter.  She worked from sunup until sundown, determined that there be no difference in their lands without Gendry.

But it was different without Gendry.  For all it was their castle, their home, their lands, Arya was still a Stark of Winterfell and if one of them was away for a stretch of time, it was supposed to be her, not Gendry.   Arya was the one who rode to Winterfell, who sat with Bran and who enforced his justice.  Gendry was the one who stayed in Hornwood, and every night, as she lay in their bed, the absence of him was heavy in the air.   _He’s alive,_ she reminded herself.   _He’s alive, and he’ll be home soon._  Sometimes, when she was tired, some bitter part of her was glad she wasn’t pregnant, that she wouldn’t be sitting here wondering if Gendry would be home in time for their babe to be born.  She hated herself for those thoughts.

She prayed in the godswood each day, hoping for a whisper from Bran, but she never had one.  Traders who came north told how the city was quiet and the dead were burning day and night, told how they feared that they should starve in the winter, for many of the farmers had come into the city for the festival and had been forbidden from returning to their crops, left to wither and die and fallow in the fields.  

She heard not even a whisper of Gendry.  No news.  But that was good.  For if she heard something about him, surely, surely it would be bad.

“Will you be riding to Winterfell for the Harvest Festival, my lady?” Maester Perry asked her over dinner one day.  She liked Maester Perry.  He’d made no comment that her stomach should be swollen by now, though he had known she’d been with child.  He was a subtle man, and a diligent one.

“No,” she said.  “No, I’ll stay here for ours this year.  I won’t leave you here alone so long as Gendry is far away.”

 _Far away._  As if he were travelling, as if he were swimming in a river and laughing and sleeping under the stars.  She stabbed at her dinner with her fork, and shifted her weight so she could not see his empty chair.

“I’m sure that will be pleasing to your smallfolk,” Maester Perry said, “Especially since some of their stores are being sent south.”

“I won’t let White Harbor starve because it’s been sick,” Arya insisted.  

“I know, my lady.”  He’d not agreed with her, but she didn’t care.

* * *

The leaves changed on the trees, and farmers brought their fruit to the keep.  They’d prepared a bonfire, and several suckling pigs, and some of the girls had woven together some dried flowers into chains and hung them around the torches.  They had no traveling singers, no bards, but Old Woman Macy had a fiddle that she could play well enough, and there was enough mead that that was enough to dance to.  

Arya watched and clapped and laughed.  It made her almost happy to see everyone so happy, for everyone’s troubles to disappear for the night as they danced and drank and enjoyed one another’s company.  Arya would have even tried to put Gendry from her mind, except that she knew that he wouldn’t want that, and that thought alone made her sad.   _He doesn’t like to be forgotten,_ she thought.   _I don’t forget him though._

How could she, when she couldn’t bring herself to dance, since he wasn’t there to dance in the line across from her?

As the night wore on, she found herself sitting alone, half-drunk and pulling her braid out to weave it back together again when she felt a pair of hands her hips and a set of lips at her neck.  She threw an elbow behind her, and heard him curse, and her hands flew to her face as she looked behind her.

It was Gendry, standing there in a long travelling cloak, clutching his chest where her elbow had made contact, looking winded and sardonic.

“I suppose that’ll teach me to try and sneak up on you.”

“More fool you.  You should have learned that one years ago,” she said as she stood and threw her arms around him, holding him as close as she could.  

“I should have.  Given how well I know you.”  He dropped his lips to hers, and the world stood still for just a moment.  There was no crackling bonfire at her back, no sound of Old Woman Macy’s fiddle, or the clapping of those dancing.  There was just her, and Gendry, and the warmth of his heart against hers.

She held him tightly, resting her face against his neck, breathing him in as he wrapped his arms around her.  They swayed slightly to the rhythm of Old Woman Macy’s fiddle, and when the song ended, she felt Gendry’s hands slide down from her hips to her bottom.  She half-smiled into his neck.  I _t’s been a while,_ she thought, and she lifted her head slightly and looked up at him.  His eyes were hungry–she could see it even in the darkness, and she swallowed.  

Something in his gaze shifted, as if he were remembering something.  “What is it?” he asked.  His voice was gentle.  “What were you going to tell me when I got back?”

Arya’s gaze dropped to his chin for a moment.  Part of her never wanted to tell him.  Things were better now.  Time had made it easier, just as time always did.  She was not nearly so miserable as she had been when she’d seen him last at the gates of White Harbor, when she’d last even seen Bran.  But she couldn’t lie to him.

“I was pregnant,” she told him quietly.  “I was, and then I wasn’t.”  She swallowed.

His face grew serious, and his arms tightened around her, his hands no longer on her bottom so that he could hold her tighter.  “When?” he asked her.

“My second night in Winterfell, I woke up bleeding,” she said.  “I’d thought to tell you when you came back from White Harbor, except…”

He didn’t say anything, he just held her, and part of her relished it, but part of her thought that it was several months too late for silence.  She didn’t want silence.  She wanted words, of love, of how he’d missed her, of anything.  But she couldn’t be frustrated with him, not truly.  He’d only just learned he’d lost a child he’d never had.  “I’m sorry I didn’t know,” he said to her.  “I’m sorry I–I’m sorry I wasn’t with you.  That I haven’t been with you.”  He sounded so sad, and Arya reached a hand up to cup his cheek, and stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him, and it was a different kiss now, deeper, slower, more needy than the first, because with every passing moment his lips were against hers, she remembered just how much time had passed since last they’d kissed.  

“You’re here now,” she whispered when at last they broke apart.  “We’re here now.”

“And you’re well?” he asked her, looking guilty.  “I should have asked that in White Harbor.”

She half-smiled.  “Better for your being alive, and healthy, and home.”

He kissed her again, but it was a faster kiss.  He looked at the bonfire, and everyone the lines of dancers and the pig that was mostly eaten.  His expression was suddenly torn, and Arya bit back a full smile. “I should greet them,” he said.  “But I don’t want to leave you.”

“You must be tired,” she said.  “Surely if you go now, you’ll be with them for hours and will drop from exhaustion.  They can have your attention tomorrow, and I don’t think they’ll begrudge you a night’s rest.”


End file.
